Change begins quietly-

before wings,

before light.

Before the world knows-

Only a soft cracking in the shell.

 

A little creature pushing through,

squeezing out by using the last drop of itself.

And slowly,

a tired, fragile body emerged.

 

How incomplete I am-

sheltered inside a chrysalis

woven from expectation.

Struggling to see,

the raw, unpolished beauty

of what simply is.

 

Light leaks in,

crackling its layered threads.

Air rushes sharp and cold.

A dry breeze

carrying the smell of

leaves, soil and tree.

 

Layered emotions twirl in my mind,

like pirouettes that can never reach the right balance.

Holding me back

from the rare flash of certainty-

the moment I turn perfectly in balance,

high on pointe.

 

The clock ticks by,

a hint of orange,

Then soft, crumpled wings form.

Slowly.

Heavily.

Gathering strength like a pilé.

From its swollen core to the veins,

fluid pumps down,

filling the wings.

 

Around me, wings open.

I feel the weight of a world

That measures worth by how high one flies.

 

My own wings tremble,

Wet and uncertain.

But I want to fly.

To see the world,

forward, backward, up, down, and sides,

simultaneously.

To see the nuances in colors,

and the beauty of motions.

 

A girl in the mirror opens too-

arms unfolding into lines,

a gentle lift,

into air.

Wings flutter -from échappé to grand jeté-

I feel the fragile courage,

of a creature taking flight.

 

Look into your eyes-

the doubtful, fearful girl

seeking certainty.

 

Remember:

The struggling is the strength.

The breaking is the becoming.

 

This is a story of metamorphosis.

The butterfly’s,

and

Mine.